


fear's ugly head

by AGracefulShadow



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: ALW Canon only, Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, tw: mentioned abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 16:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15609936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGracefulShadow/pseuds/AGracefulShadow
Summary: Fear has followed him his whole life.





	fear's ugly head

Fear.

It is the first emotion he remembers feeling.

Fear of her gaze like twin blades, of her hand on his _good_ cheek, of her words dripping with poison.

He hides, cringes from her, his own mother, for fear of retaliation. As if he is somehow to blame for his deformities.

He stays in his room, tears streaming down his face, and digs his fingernails into his skull. He wishes to tear the skin from his head; maybe the bloody flesh beneath would better appease her.

He never does it. He fears the pain too much.

***

Fear.

It is the first emotion he recognizes in others.

It’s never _just_ fear; disgust creeps in, too. First, the shoulders hitch, the hand covers the mouth, the breath catches in the throat… and then the moment of surprise fades, and the face twists into a contorted expression that he learns means revulsion.

Once, he makes a little girl cry.

He is nine years old, and he tries to ignore it. He tries to ignore the words of pity that are never intended for him (as if his face is some burden his mother must bear), tries to ignore the glimmer of horror hiding behind pathetic smiles, tries to ignore the jeers he hears when his back is turned.

He never can. They cut too deep for them not to scar.

***

Fear.

It is the first emotion he feels when he runs away.

There is a stab of it in his fifteen-year-old stomach, the kind that threatens vomiting. It is the last emotion he wants to feel.

He stops at the top of the hill, turns around, stares at the house he is leaving behind. Fear pulses with his heartbeat. If he is found alone, without anyone by him, what would become of? How many towns will he be chased out of? Can he ever sit still again?

He stares for a moment longer, then shoulders his pack. Perhaps running away is a good thing. Perhaps he could join an acting troupe and never have to worry again. He could fit right in there.

His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his palm hard enough to draw blood. He wonders if he should put a bandage over it.

He never does. The twinge of pain will make him stronger.

***

Fear.

It is the first emotion he feels in the circus.

He has shelter in a cage, he has food in the form of gruel, he has a place to write the songs in his head open to all before he wants them to see. His music is not the only thing all can see; he, too, is on display.

At least this time he is not loathed.

He notices early on that this time, when the fear gives way, they laugh. He plays, and they smile. He stops to write, and they grin. It is like he is a dancing monkey, costumed and dancing forever.

They are amused by the monster and his music.

He tries to ignore it. He knows one day he will be done; perhaps than he can escape.

Neither never happens. But he starts to go numb.

***

Fear.

It is the first emotion he wants to see again when he starts to see something new.

Creasing of the brow, softening in the face, shaking of the head.

Sometimes they are with children, and they squeeze their child’s hand and walk away.

He hates it. Something about it feels wrong.

He wishes they’d go back to fear.

Some of them never do. He throws himself into his work.

***

Fear.

It is the emotion that makes him react. 

It propels him to his feet the night the woman comes.

He does not know this woman. Not personally, at least. He has seen her before; she has a young daughter. But the young girl is not here right now. It is just the woman.

She has a finger to her lips. The lock on his cage clicks and falls off.

He hesitates. _Who are you?_

_You like opera,_ oui?

It is not an answer to his question. He answers hers with a nod.

The woman opens the cage. _Come, I know a place where you can stay._

He holds back. He is not sure he can trust this woman. He is not sure he can trust anyone. _You know who I am._

The woman nods. _Hurry. Any longer and we might be caught._

He stares at the woman. It is the first chance he has had in a long time, and he is willing to give it a shot. He remains on guard as he scoops up his papers, as he asks repeated questions: _Who are you? Where are we to go? Why are you doing this?_

She never answers. He backs off.

***

Fear.

It is what leads him to his new persona.

He has known that he should stay there, or at least out of sight. He does not want to risk being caught.

But the music is captivating. It is everything he dreams.

Most nights he spends in Box Five. It has a decent view and for some reason is empty most of the time. He starts to count on it, starts to look forward to the night’s performance. It does not matter how many times he has seen this particular opera. He can handle it.

It is full the night he gets chased out.

However irrationally, he feels betrayed, as if he should have been told. His presence is known. He hasn’t tried to hide it.

He chooses to watch from the wings that night. That is his fatal mistake.

The ballet girl screams when she finds him, screams so loud and so long the performance is disrupted. She is afraid of him. He’s used to it by now.

He panics all the same.

The girl is knocked out when she hits the ground, blood trickling from her nose. He hears footsteps coming fast from behind him; his immediate response is to run, faster than he’s ever run before.

He slams into a huge man, pushes the two of them into a wall. More fear courses through him; he can’t knock out two people and expect to stay hidden.

_Ghost!_ the man cries.

He gets an idea.

He slams his elbow into the man’s windpipe. _It is a ghost, indeed. Would you care to join me?_

_No, please,_ _M_ _onsieur_ _F_ _antôme_ _,_ the man chokes.

_Good._ He grins grimly, steps back. The man has a similar face to him; on it, a beautiful white half mask. _Give me that._ He snatches it for his own.

_Of course, Monsieur Fantôme._ The man falls, blubbering like a child, to the floor.

He smiles, fits the mask over his face (it is a bit too large, but it is a start), turns and runs off.

He never looks back. The Phantom has been born.

***

Fear.

It is what keeps him alive.

Perhaps it is a bit cruel, torturing those who are simply trying to do what they love; but as he watches rehearsal from his permanent seat, he remembers how the world tortured _him_ when he was only doing the same.

He has his few he will never harm – the woman who brought him here, for instance. She knows his secret; she has sworn herself to silence in exchange for her and her daughters’ safety. And every now and then a person catches his eye, but they never stay for long.

Let them go. They have never seen him. Perhaps that is why they leave.

He rises from his seat, adjusts his new mask so it is snug against his face, leaves mid-song. He has seen this part so many times; he has pinpointed the flaw in the program. It is not the fault of the actors, but rather the crew. So be it. If they refuse to listen to his notes, then they will have to learn some other way.

And if they do not learn, well, that is their own fault.

He is now above the stage on the catwalk. There is no one up here; of course not. That is the problem.

He cuts the rope for a backdrop, sends it plummeting to the ground, sits back and enjoys the view.

It is the same fear as he has always seen – hitching shoulders, catching breath, hands to mouth to prevent a scream, but at the same time, something about this is different. Perhaps it is the way it doesn’t fade to something else; there is no disgust, no hatred, no _pity_ , the word he has searched for all these years. It remains fear. Fear of him, yes; but they do not fear his appearance so much as they fear his actions. They fear what he can do.

He loves it.

He strides off the catwalk before the stagehands can come back up. Best to stay hidden; he has a reputation, after all.

From here, he can hear the chaos below. He stops, watches, smiles. They shout and yell and blame each other before one of them, her daughter, points at the rafters. He steps off into the shadows as everyone looks up.

Being seen is a risk he cannot talk. If they learn that he is but a man, he will certainly be chased out again. He has no desire to leave. He has forced himself into his niche; he will have to be forced out again.

He slips down off the stage. He can still hear occasional shouts – they are still afraid.

He adjusts his mask again out of habit.

_Let them fear. It’s about time._


End file.
